


Before the Beginning

by lontradiction



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (not by Jeralt), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Backstory, Child Abuse, Child My Unit | Byleth, Childhood Trauma, Dehumanization, Female My Unit | Byleth, Gen, Just to be safe, Mercenaries, Original Character Death(s), Precognition, creepy baby byleth, several of them - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lontradiction/pseuds/lontradiction
Summary: There was a time when no one called Byleth a demon, when she was the the baby of the company(even if sometimes she knew things she shouldn't and her stare was just too piercing). There was a time before she got used to losing her companions. There was a time when she was just beginning to learn the trade she'd come to master.Times change.A collection of memories from growing up with the Blade Breaker's mercenary company.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Original Male Character(s) (unrequited)
Kudos: 13





	1. First(?) Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> We don't get to learn a lot about Byleth's past in-game. Even when others ask, their answers are ambiguous or they say that they don't remember. While this makes sense from the perspective of a blank-slate protagonist, I've always liked to consider what kind of childhood they would have had and what reasons they would have for having such a spotty memory. This is my attempt at filling in those holes.
> 
> Byleth's powers are slightly tweaked to reflect how the player can see who enemies are going to target on the enemy phase. Basically, she can see the direct consequences of the choices people make, like what will happen next if she says a certain thing or they take a job offer. Anything further than reactions to that specific choice fades fast, though.

**20th of the Horsebow Moon, 1164**

Dinner with the Blade Breaker’s company is a “family” affair. No one escapes from the daily ritual, especially on nights like tonight when they’re holed up in-town and have a proper table to sit around. There’s plenty of warm food, for once, and spirits are high. Bets shoot across the table as shots are lined up and thrown back, and laughter erupts at the slightest provocation. The barkeep and staff seem more amused than annoyed, so maybe they’ll even get to finish out the night on their own terms for once. When Maxwell calls for another round, the woman who brings them asks, “Are you celebrating something tonight or do you always have this much fun?”

Before anyone else can respond, Byleth pipes up, “It’s my birthday today.” Jeralt spits out the water Lavinia’d forced on him, surprise written all across his face. Byleth’s not sure why. He should know when her birthday is, shouldn’t he?

The woman with the drinks ignores him, instead gasping theatrically. “Really, little lady? You all should have told us! Well, happy birthday. Let me see if we can’t whip you up something special.” She walks back where she came from, leaving a whole table of mercenaries staring at their littlest member. Byleth picks up her cup, taking a sip of water as she kicks her feet.

Scott recovers the fastest out of them all, turning to Jeralt with the oddest expression on his face. “Hey Commander, how come you never told us the kid’s birthday?”

“Never came up,” Jeralt said, glaring at his water as if it had choked him on purpose. “None of you know my birthday either; what’s it matter?”

“There’s a diff’rence ‘tween an old man and a wee tyke,” Maxwell slurs. He must have lost tonight, Byleth thinks. “If I’d known, I woulda made’r somethin’ for the occasion.”

Sliding Maxwell his own glass of water, Lavinia fixes Jeralt with a Look and says, “She’s a little kid. It’s good for her to get a special day for herself once in a while. Goodness knows she could use some play time.” She reaches over to ruffle Byleth’s hair, granting her a rare smile. “Happy birthday, little one.”

Byleth doesn’t voice her thanks out loud, but she does lean into the touch, which she knows Lavinia will interpret as the gratitude it is. Another mercenary (she doesn’t see which) claps her on the back as they head up to their room. Maxwell raises his water and declares, “A toast to th’ lil princess!” It’s a good feeling, she thinks, to be acknowledged like this: not in the detached way most usually greet the Commander’s daughter, but as a little girl celebrating being born.

She probably should be smiling. Her face doesn’t cooperate. Maybe they’ll know she’s… happy(?) anyway. Maybe.

The cook brings her a small dish of saghert. She’s smiling, Byleth notes, as she says, “Have a sweet for the birthday girl.” Byleth thanks her and takes a bite of the dish. It’s delicious; peach currant mixing beautifully with the flaky crust. She catches a glimpse of Jeralt staring at her contemplatively. Maybe he’s wondering if she likes the dessert? She gives him a small nod as reassurance. It doesn’t seem to help, but he does return to his water.

Scott strokes his beard as he turns to Byleth. “How old’re you, anyway? You were pretty little when your dad got the gang together, but I don’t think I ever asked.”

“Don’t know,” says Byleth between bites. “I just know it’s my birthday.”

That brings the volume down at the table, for some reason. Scott’s the first to speak again. “Should’ve known Jeralt wouldn’t keep track of his kid’s age, either. The man doesn’t seem to notice the passage of time.” His tone is light, but he’s not smiling. Then again, he never is.

“The man’s right here,” Jeralt mutters, though he doesn’t dispute the rest of it.

One of the new recruits - Byleth hasn’t learned her name yet - says, “Well, the important part is that it’s another year under her belt. Give or take a few years, that’s still true.” She’s smiling, but her voice shakes.

“Damn straight,” Maxwell says, downing another mug of ale before he stands up. His knees immediately give out; Scott just barely manages to catch him before he hits the floor.

“Looks like someone’s had a few too many,” Scott says, sighing as Maxwell leans heavily into his chest. “I’m taking this poor lout upstairs before he embarrasses himself.”

Jeralt stands up as well, gathering himself as he brushes off his tunic. “We should be turning in as well.”

Byleth cocks her head. “I haven’t finished my saghert.”

Jeralt sighs, but he gives in. “Last bites, kid. I want you up and at ‘em before we leave so I can make sure you’re set here.”

Shoving the last few spoonfuls of her dessert into her mouth, Byleth clambers off of the bench and joins Jeralt as he climbs the stairs to the guest rooms. They don’t bother speaking until they’re in the room and Byleth is changing for bed.

Finally, Jeralt breaks the silence. “How did you know your birthday was today?”

Byleth shrugs, pulling on her nightgown. “I just knew.” She turns. Jeralt’s sitting on the bed, folded hands blocking any sign of his expression as he stares into the distance. He does that sometimes, when Byleth knows something she’s not supposed to. She’s always wondered what he’s looking at, but she’s never asked. It’s not the sort of thing they talk about.

“I never told you,” Jeralt says quietly. Byleth says nothing. His voice implies he doesn’t want a response anyway. Instead, she buries herself under the blankets, twisting them up until she’s fully cocooned.

As she begins to drift off to sleep, she feels a large, warm hand land on her shoulder. “Happy birthday, kid,” Jeralt whispers, so quietly that she wonders if he really said it at all.

* * *

She dreams of a heartbeat echoing through darkness, perfectly in rhythm. _Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub._ Pressure bears down on her from all sides, but it’s not painful. It feels like those rare occasions when Jeralt picks her up and carries her over his shoulder - a soft and steady hold. _Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub._ The sound resonates in her bones again and again, almost lulling her into a second sleep.

Then it changes. _Lub, dub-lub-dub, lub, dub._ It stutters and rushes in turn as if it can make up for its faults in enthusiasm. Her skin is shrinking, constricting, trying its best to stay intact. _Lub-lub-dub, dub-dub, lub, dub, lub, dub._ The sound fades, slowing, quieting, stilling.

Then it stops, and all is silence.


	2. The Innocence of Death

**3rd of the Lone Moon, 1166**

It’s snowing when Byleth wakes up, so she’s not surprised when the mercenaries down at breakfast are grumbling into their porridge and eggs. While she doesn’t mind the snow herself, she’s heard enough stories about slips and steps that sank further than expected sending a new patient to Lavinia that she understands the apprehension.

Sitting herself down in the quietest corner of the dining room, she gently pulls her chess pouch open until she can flatten the leather out and put the pieces down. “Queen on her color,” she whispers to herself as she matches the light queen to the undyed square, just like Maxwell had taught her. “King by her side. Bishops whisper in their ears, knights strike up patrol, and towers close the corners.”

“That’s right, lass,” Maxwell says from above her. She looks up at his smiling face. “Glad I could help you get the hang of it.” Crouching down, he helps place the last few pawns. The pieces are more suited to her child-sized hands than his broad palms and thick fingers, but he makes do. “Think your old man would mind if I played a game?”

She nods. Jeralt said he wanted everyone ready to leave as soon as possible, and even the slowest eaters are starting to finish up.

“You’re probably right,” Maxwell says as he settles back toward sitting down. “So don’t tell him, okay?”

Jeralt catches his arm before hits the floor. “She doesn’t have to,” he says, in that strict but warm tone he uses with few even within the company. “Just for that, you’re paying our tab when we go.”

“Aw, Commander,” Maxwell says with a mock pout. “You’re gonna clear me out over a game of chess?”

Jeralt scoffs. “Show me some initiative out there and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

“That a challenge?” Maxwell’s smile is dangerous. Byleth has to look away, starting her game in silence.

Jeralt must pull Maxwell to his feet, since he vanishes from Byleth’s peripheral vision. “Take it how you like,” Jeralt says, “just get your ass in gear.”

_When they meet the bandits, Maxwell charges in, eager to prove himself. It’s the wrong choice._

Jeralt sends him off and takes his place, crouching down in front of her. She doesn’t look him in the eyes. She doesn’t have to for him to know she’s paying attention. “You know the drill, kid. Stay in sight of the grownups and stay out of trouble. We should be back by the end of the day. Any questions?”

“You shouldn’t tell them things like that,” she says, quietly. “People make bad choices when you act like it’s a game. Right?”

Jeralt’s silent for a moment. When he speaks, it comes out like a sigh. “My own words, huh? You’re right, but don’t worry too much about us today. Maxwell’s a professional. These bandits are anything but. He’ll be okay.”

Byleth shakes her head, capturing a knight from herself. “He won’t.”

Jeralt must have nothing to say to that, because he just ruffles her hair and tells her to play nice with the staff. He always tells her that, even though she has never, to her knowledge, done anything else. She just plays chess by herself. Is that not nice? It must be, because if it weren’t, people would get mad, and people don’t get mad at her. Not for that, anyway. So she must always play nice.

Jeralt’s already gone, though, so there’s no point in saying so out loud.

The time goes by quickly, as she plays game after game after game. White usually wins, she finds, but not perfectly, which probably means she’s doing well? It’s hard to tell when she mostly plays by herself. It’s hard to tell if she’s even getting better. Maybe she should ask the other mercenaries to play with her when they get back. Maxwell would, but he won’t be able to, because he’s making a bad choice. She doesn’t know anything other than how many bandits will see him as an easy target when he’s out by himself, but she knows that will be bad enough. He won’t play with her tonight and he won’t pay the tab. She knows it. So she needs to ask someone else.

Maybe Jeralt will play with her. He usually doesn’t, because he’s busy, but he always wins and she likes playing with him. That’s the best way to get better. Yes, that’s what she’ll do first. Ask him.

White wins another match.

She doesn’t notice darkness begin to fall outside, but she does look up and realize the room is lit only by candles. That’s a little later than she expected, but Jeralt said not to worry, so she won’t. Not yet. The staff might ask her to go up to their room soon, though. Most usually don’t stay the night, after all. They have their own kids to get home to. Usually, she doesn’t wonder what those kids do all day - whether they go to school or play together or help their parents work - but she’s barely spoken to anyone today, so there’s nothing to distract her, and she doesn’t know if Maxwell is coming back, which makes it hard not to wonder what it would be like to be one of them instead.

Black wins, this time.

Just as she’s confirmed the checkmate, she hears the door of the inn open. Wind rushes in, cold and biting, as the mercenaries file inside. Gathering up the pieces, she listens for the usual banter that accompanies the end of the mission. There’s less than usual, and it’s quiet. Not a good sign. Pulling the drawstring pouch shut, she stands and peeks into the entrance. The first person she spots is Lavinia, who looks more exhausted than Byleth has seen her in a very long time. Some of the others limp or hold themselves with the far-away tiredness of the newly healed. Jeralt comes in last, closing the door behind him. Maxwell isn’t there.

“All of you, get some rest,” Jeralt orders. “We’ll delay moving out until afternoon if we have to, but no longer than that. Be ready to leave by then if you don’t want to get left behind.” Byleth knows what he really means. _If you’re quitting, let me know before we go._ It’s what he says when things go wrong.

It’s what he says when someone’s not coming back. It’s what he’s saying because _Maxwell’s_ not coming back.

Byleth catches his eye and points towards their room. The others need quiet, she can tell, but Jeralt will be worried if she doesn’t let him know she’s leaving. He nods. Slipping away, she wraps the cord around and around her hand. It’s soft but strong, because Maxwell knew she’d carry it everywhere, so there’s no give even when it’s wrapped so tight her fingers go white. She looks up to find she’s inches from their door. There is nothing stopping her from opening it but all she can think of is -

No. She opens the door. Sets the pouch down _(too harshly, what if the pieces break and Maxwell’s not here to replace them)_. Doesn’t bother to change before she rolls into bed. Closes her heart to the world as if she’s asleep _(it takes hours to find the mercy of unconsciousness)_.

In the morning, she’s up and ready to leave before most of the others have begun to stir. Jeralt’s already paid the tab. Neither of them say anything. There’s nothing to be said.


End file.
